


ornery rain

by Oshii



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: FINALLY MPREG PETER, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, Morning Sickness, Mpreg, Romancek, The Gift that keeps on giving, Vomiting, emeto, iDiru, road triiiiip, the mask the monsters wear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 04:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15112004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii
Summary: Fleeing from the unstoppable Order of the Dragon (as well as a psychotic Olivia), Roman does his best to pilot the van through a torrential downpour, and Peter languishes in the throes of morning sickness. Mpreg, H/C. Gift drabble for iDiru!





	ornery rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iDiru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iDiru/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Mask The Monsters Wear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12220989) by [iDiru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iDiru/pseuds/iDiru). 



> if you guys dig mpreg as well as Hemlock Grove, do yourselves a favor and go read "The Mask the Monsters Wear" by iDiru. It is simply phenomenal. Lots of whump and angst and gore and porn, all featuring Peter and Roman being boys in love.
> 
> Also, lyrics to "Orange Crush" by R.E.M. = not mine! No copyright infringement intended.

Rain spattered the windshield in merciless torrents, the wipers barely keeping up with the onslaught. The van’s headlights cut twin beams through the melee, but rising fog reduced visibility to dangerously low levels. Roman gripped the steering wheel tighter and set his jaw. He wasn’t used to having to focus this much on driving safely – hell, safety had never been a primary concern of his as a fledgling motorist – but his conscience, what good it was worth, had consistently reminded him that he was carrying precious cargo through this storm.

Said precious cargo was currently dozing fitfully in the back, curled up on his blanket nest in naught but boxers and a grey T-shirt. Peter had not acclimated well to pregnancy (but then again, by design, he was never intended to). Exhaustion beyond normal biological levels had lent him the blissful and necessary escape from the nausea, and he retreated gratefully whenever the opportunity arose. The trash can bungee corded to the van’s interior panel was there for him when he woke. Roman wished it didn’t have to be this way (he supposed Peter wished as well).

 _And that concludes our lunch hour rock block,_  the radio announced tinnily.  _Bringing you a nonstop block of commercial-free rock for your lunch break, HardRock WXUR. Weather report! Heavy rains and flood warnings still in effect –_

“Shee-it, really?” Roman muttered, squinting through a haze of stoplight hues reflecting off the wet pavement. He slowed the van to a stop, wipers still keeping up their frenzied rhythm. There were a few cars ahead of him, and it was a busy intersection. He took a moment to look behind him and check on Peter. “Hey, you okay back there?”

Peter had dully risen from his slumber, hair a mess and face a worse mess. He groaned in response, scrubbing a ring-laden hand over his face. His expression was the perfect picture of early-morning miserable. “God…” he moaned, and reached for the trash can.

“Jesus,” Roman grimaced, watching through the rearview as Peter buried his face in the can, straining to bring up a few mouthfuls of bile on an empty stomach.

The car behind him honked, jerking his attention forward. The light had turned green when he wasn’t paying attention. He accelerated, glaring out the side mirror at the headlights behind him. “Fucking asshole,” he swore, and began searching for an opening in traffic so he could park this monstrosity.

“Roman,” gasped Peter, panting over the trash can. “Pull over. Please.”

“I’m fucking trying,” Roman shot back, eyes darting frantically between the rearview and passenger side mirrors, trying to merge into the turning lane. “Just hang on, okay?”

He was able to pull off into a Walgreens after narrowly missing the bumper of the Fiat in his blind spot. The Fiat blared his horn, shouting some choice words at Roman out the window, which Roman tactfully ignored in favor of tending to Peter.

“Here,” He announced, throwing the shifter in Park and turning fully around. “Hey. You gonna make it back there?”

Peter breathed heavily, trying to catch his breath in the aftermath of his exertions. His skin shone with a light sheen of sweat, cheeks flushed and tears streaking clean trails down his face. “Fucking…nngh…fucking hate you. Hate you for turning me into this.”

“Hey,” Roman repeated, this time with an edge and a narrowed glare. “I’m sorry. All right? Neither of us could have predicted this would happen. I’m fucking sorry.”

There was a tense silence that stretched between them, unmoving, as Peter struggled to regain his bearings and Roman sat wordlessly in the driver’s seat, watching the wipers streak back and forth across the wet windshield. The radio softly droned some nineties grunge for ambience. Finally, he spoke. “You want me to get you anything? Since we’re here, and all.”

Peter considered this offer, spitting and straightening up. He still clutched the trash can with one hand, using the other to push his sweaty hair off his face. There was a lot of things he wanted, and several he was sure he needed, although a formulated list was not precisely coming to mind. “Push Pop,” he finally declared. “The orange kind. If they have ‘em.”

Roman had to turn fully at that one, expression mildly incredulous. “Push Pop,” he repeated.

Peter nodded, and his glance was actually shy beneath dark fringe and heavy brows. “Yeah.” Then, as an afterthought (and a testament to how shitty was currently feeling), he added, “Please.”

The inside of the store was brightly lit, a fluorescent hell reminiscent of the White Tower. Roman wondered vaguely if the surroundings wouldn’t trigger some kind of PTSD episode as he perused the aisles, walking past diapers and formula and tampons, shooting a glare in the direction of the condoms and pregnancy tests (lotta fuckin good those would do ‘em now) and internally rejoicing when he found the meager grocery section in the back of the store. The coolers were stocked with juice and milk and frozen pizzas, and he wondered idly if he should pick up a gallon of milk (for calcium? Vitamin D? He supposed Peter could use some of that).

At last, he came upon his treasure – the last cooler was filled with assorted pints of ice cream. And, on the bottom rack, a box of orange Push Pops, just like the kind he used to see other neighborhood children sucking on during summer days, when the ice cream truck would make its circuitous jingling route through the streets.

(Olivia had never allowed Roman or Shelley to run outside and play with the other children, and certainly not to condescend themselves as to beg for treats from the local peddler, instead keeping them sheltered within the confines of drawn drapes and air conditioning, sending the personal shopper out into the summer heat for top-shelf ice cream without bright colors or cartoon characters on the labels).

Roman had also, demonstrating a brief flash of rational thought, picked up a pack of toothbrushes, a three-pack of toothpaste, more toilet paper, and a pack of disposable wet wipes, as well as a six-pack of orange Gatorade (he had, in fact, learned from personal hangover experience that electrolytes were something that generally needed to be replenished once lost).

 

He hurried through the parking lot, shoulders hunched futilely against the torrential downpour.

“Shee-it!” He greeted, ducking into the van and depositing the packages in the passenger seat. He turned to see Peter sitting up, hair slicked back and wearing a different T-shirt. “The fuck, did you actually stick your head outside?”

Peter just looked at him, eyes dull. “Yes, Roman. I did.”

“You really think that’s smart? In your…condition, and all-”

“Roman,” interrupted Peter, holding up a slim-fingered hand. “I am not some delicate fucking flower. Definitely not a goddamn woman, so stop treating me like one.”

Roman frowned, blinking away raindrops that clung to his lashes. “The hell do you mean? Looking out for your health, that’s treating you like a woman? Degrading you?”

Peter closed his eyes, inhaling wearily. He rubbed his face with both hands, holding them there for a moment. “I’m fine. Just…I need a shower. We’ve been cooped up in here too long.” He plopped his hands into his lap with an exasperated sigh, one that ended in a soft groan, face going pale. “Fucking nauseous. I’m tired as shit. I’m sore all over. I can’t eat anything I usually do and I crave shit I never thought I would. I dunno how women do this every day. Millions of them. Since the beginning of evolutionary history, just fucking….fucking and having babies.”

Roman stared. “For someone who doesn’t wanna be compared to a woman even though he’s technically pregnant, he just did a great job comparing himself to one.”

Peter glared. “Fuck you.”

“Be nice,” Roman retorted, reaching into one of the bags and unearthing his prize – the brightly colored, slightly damp box of Push Pops. “Got your frozen phallic-shaped treats, you fucker.”

That seemed to erase some of the weariness from around Peter’s eyes, and a fresh glimmer of hope shone from within the recesses of his exhausted soul. “You’re a good man, Godfrey.”

“Just trying to seal my place in Heaven,” Roman replied, holding a palm over his heart and handing over the box. “One magnanimous act of selflessness at a time.”

“Gonna take a lot more than producing some frozen orange vague dongs to do that,” Peter muttered, unwrapping his treat. “Mmm…Jesus. Been years since I had one of these.”

Roman let him eat in peace, secretly satisfied that he was at last ingesting something. He turned the heat up a couple clicks, aiming the vents toward the back (stupid fucker insisted on showering in the rain like a…well, a traveling gypsy, he supposed, and then wondered if it was racist to think so, then resolved to ask Peter himself if it was, later).

His train of thought was interrupted by a sudden moan from the back. He twisted around in time to see Peter lurch for the trash can, convulse with a gagging cough, and then bring up a mouthful of orange slurry with a shuddering moan.

“Aw, man,” Roman winced. “You were doing so well, too.”

“God,” Peter gasped, leaning back with his eyes still closed. A fresh dampness shone over his face, and Roman noticed (not for the first time) how pronounced his cheekbones had become.

“Thought you were craving those?” Roman pressed, furrowing his brow and gesturing toward the box of Push Pops.

“Take ‘em,” Peter ground out, abruptly shoving the box toward Roman. “Ugh, please. Don’t even wanna look at them.”

Roman did so, fingers carefully closing around the box and removing it from Peter’s vicinity. He wisely chose not to comment on this current turn of events, chalking it up to girly hormones. He vaguely remembered Letha exhibiting the same behavior early on in her pregnancy – she’d begged Roman to take her out for pizza ( _ooh, with extra olives and banana peppers!_ ), lauding how delicious it was going to be, and once they’d stepped foot inside the Italian restaurant, the smell had hit her, and she’d promptly gagged and whirled straight back for the exit, leaving Roman confused and slightly irritated, wondering selfishly where his life had gone wrong.

“You should try and drink something,” he said instead, unhooking one of the Gatorade bottles from its plastic lacing and offering it to him. “Replenish your electrolytes.”

Peter looked up at him with unconcealed disdain. “Replenish yours,” he groaned. “Let’s just go. We’ve sat too long already. Everybody’s watching.”

This had gone on for too long. Roman went into serious mother hen mode, unbuckling his seatbelt and clambering all ten feet of his lanky limbs over the console and into the back, resolve set and Gatorade in tow, ignoring Peter’s murmurs of protest at the sudden action.

“Dude, just  _drive_ -”

“Scooch,” he commanded, settling in beside Peter and twisting open the bottle. “Here. Drink.”

Peter opened his mouth to protest, then seemed to decide that, despite the obnoxious delivery, the message Roman was sending was actually one that should be heralded with importance. He’d been throwing up more often than he’d been drinking (and certainly more often than eating). This morning sickness shit was not a fucking joke, not a subject of giggles, and Roman was (unfortunately) right – he did need to replenish his electrolytes.

So, steeling his own resolve (and willing his stomach to cooperate), Peter accepted the Gatorade, unscrewing the cap and taking a tentative swig.

“Ugh,” he grimaced, the sweet and mildly salty flavor overpowering to his queasy innards. “Fuck…”

“It’s okay,” Roman reassured him, tone soft. “Just give it a second. See if it stays down.”

They waited in companionable anxious silence, the only sounds being the rain pattering down on the roof of the van, and, in the background, R.E.M. playing softly on the radio.

_Follow me, don’t follow me_

_I’ve got my spine, I’ve got my orange crush_

_Collar me, don’t collar me_

“Oh, fuck,” Peter ground out, and this time, Roman was ready with the trash can, holding it under Peter’s chin as the Gatorade came back up with a straining liquid heave.

_I’ve got my spine, I’ve got my orange crush_

_We are agents of the free_

_I’ve had my fun and now it’s time to_

“Jesus,” Roman murmured, rubbing gentle circles on Peter’s back, noting how easily he felt the ridges of his spine beneath the thin fabric of his damp T-shirt. “It’s okay. ‘s okay.”

“…ss-sorry,” Peter shivered, spitting into the can, hunching over reflexively as another dry heave gripped him. “Tried-”

_Serve your conscience (over me)_

_Overseas (Not over me)_

_Coming in fast, over me_

“Dude, not your fault,” Roman consoled him, keeping his hand steady. “Hormones got you all fucked up. We’ll just have to see if Pryce has any ideas.”

Peter uttered a low moan, trying to steady his breathing. “Ideas on using me for scientific study? Or for the title of his next thesis, also based on me?”

“Sometimes, women – sorry, but it’s true – sometimes, they have to get hospitalized for, y’know, morning sickness. They get super dehydrated and have to be hooked up to IVs.”

This was not a prospect that seemed enticing, and that reluctance lent Peter strength. “I’ll be fine,” he muttered thickly, spitting again and straightening up with some effort. “It fucking sucks, but I can handle it. We’re not there yet.”

Roman lowered his hand from Peter’s back, but continued to watch him warily. “You can barely keep down fluids. Your fucking organs are fused. Maybe this has something to do with that.”

“Or something to do with the mutant fetus gestating in my fucking colon,” Peter responded. “This shit, it’s…normal, as normal can be for our situation.” He sat back with a sigh, resting a hand over his stomach and closing his eyes once more. His head spun dizzily, and he silently willed it to go away, fucking  _prayed_  not to show any more weakness in front of Roman, lest he get hauled to the nearest emergency room. “Let’s just drive, Roman. We gotta find her.”

Roman nodded, at last, eyes wide and serious. “Yeah. You’re right. Pryce’s team picked up some coordinates. ‘s where we were headed when you last passed out.”

Peter flung a hand up, gesticulating vaguely. “Well, let’s go. Time’s a-fuckin’ wastin’.”

The neon glow of the Walgreens faded away in the gloom, washed from the rearview by the never-ending rain.


End file.
